Betsy Belle and the Captain

The small ship slid smoothly through the moonlit swells, the waves thudding now and again with resounding slaps against her wooden planking. Above, the sails rippled and tugged at their restraining ropes, which creaked and shifted in response. The bone-strewn flag – darker than the night itself – fluttered in the breeze, an omen of terror to any and all who saw it. And across the waves spilled golden lamp light spilled from the captain's window, through which any seamen unlucky enough to be caught peering through would have glimpsed a most arresting sight.

"What the blazes am I to do with ye, then, miss?" The seated captain was well into his second cup of rum, and he eyed the female figure standing silently in the corner with mingled jocularity and irritation. "Ye say ye're my prisoner, and so kind of ye to say so. Ye are, like it or not." He leaned forward and clapped his cup down on the table with a wooden thud. "Me and me crew, we've done for your friends, miss. They've gone down to dine with the fishes-"

"They're not my friends," the figure spoke, her voice strained. "No friends of mine, and good riddance to them all." "Oho? So the missie wa'n't entirely pleased with her shipmates?" The captain let out a rum-infused chortle. "Well, damn my eyes, then! 'Fore I make up me mind about what I'll do with ye, lay it out fer me. Enlighten yer captain as to the whys and the wherefores of how a pretty young thing like you ended up in these god-forsaken waters with a crew of lily-livered cowards, eh?"

The woman – for a woman it was, clad in a simple, sea-stained frock and frayed petticoats – shuffled forward into the lamp light. She was short and rather thickset, with a tangle of dark hair and a face that most would have simply termed plain. Her arms were bound behind her with a coarse hempen rope, as were her ankles, and she gazed at the captain now with a sullen expression.

"They weren't my friends, sir," she repeated now. "They didn't care two figs for me. They were just following orders, sailing for Kingstown to unload me along with all the other dry goods." She shifted as the ship heeled, then continued in a low and bitter tone. "Uncle- he sent me out here. Uncle said he had no place for me, that I'd need to find some other place, that I'd been a leech and a parasite on the Buxton family long enough…"

"Aha. Your mother and father both dead, then?" From any other mouth the words might have sounded cruel, but the captain's tone was both interested and unexpectedly serious. "Yes, sir," came the response. "An' Uncle lost everything last year – or so he says. He was always ranting about the South Seas or some such rubbish, and now- well, I don't rightly know what happened, but now he hasn't any more place for me. So I was sent to Kingstown to make my living as best I can…"

"Many a young miss could do worse," the captain opined, and poured himself a third cup with a surprisingly steady hand. "Now ye won't be making yer way to Kingstown anymore, miss – not now ye're on my ship. 'Course ye hain't the most buxom wench, nor the stoutest. But as long as ye've got what God gave to all womankind between those stumps of your'n, why, no reason to tip you overboard-" "I sha'n't," came the reply, strong and fierce in its intensity. "Sir, beg pardon, but I will not sell that- that part of me- in that way."

"Oh, ye sha'n't?" The captain chortled again, clearly amused at the woman's naivete. "Not willingly, at least! Then pray tell, what else have ye to earn yer bread, miss? What else have ye that a man might wish for?" He spat in good-natured derision. "Dinna tell me ye can cook, miss? Or suckle a babe with those paps of yours?"

Her face flushed at last under the captain's derisive words, and her bound hands twisted uncomfortably behind her. "Well, no, sir… begging your pardon. But I know a good many things to- that please men besides my- my-" "Yer cunt?" the captain offered with a leer and a sip, and her blush deepened. "My- my aunt told me I was a bad girl, and that I should burn in hell for doing these things. But…" and here she looked up, a sudden defiant light in her eyes. "Sir, even hell can't be much worse than life for a solitary woman, can it?"

Perhaps it was the rum, but the captain looked genuinely taken aback by her words. "Well, I can't say, exactly," he shrugged after a short pause. "That's fer the priest to work out." And then he leaned forward, theological and metaphysical concerns forgotten for the moment. "But miss, if ye've no friends and no family and no willingness to go a-whoring, ye've precious little left ye. We could have done and pitch ye overboard now, ye know. But if ye're saying ye'd like to stay here on me ship…" Here he eyed the bound woman with jocular interest. "Ye've got to show me what ye mean. What makes ye so certain ye can please a man without joining giblets with him, eh?"

At which she, still blushing but with head erect, dropped to her knees. "Perhaps I can show you, sir," she murmured – and she gazed across the little table with parted lips and an oddly bright gleam in her eye. "Begging pardon, but if you'd like…"

***

That was all a year or more past.

Betsy Belle – for so she was now known by her shipmates – crawled over the rough wooden planks toward the cabin door and the sound of the captain's approaching footsteps. She wore little, save a dirty chemise over which her naked breasts spilled… and a thick hempen rope that circled her throat and ran its rough length to an anchor sunk deep into an oaken beam. Her face was smudged, her hair tousled, and yet in her eyes that rose and fastened on the cabin door there gleamed something… something curiously like expectant joy.

The smile that broke across her face as the captain entered confirmed it.

"Ye're awake now, me little Belle?" he queried, and then his rough hands were stretching down, twining and tugging at her hair, at the rope that held her captive. "Yes, sir," she murmured, and her hands slid suggestively down across his faded velvet breeches. "Awake and ready to break my fast…"

The captain smiled, reaching behind him to check the lock on the door behind him. "Well, damn my eyes! You are a thirsty whore today-" He hauled Betsy backward toward the wooden post near the center of his quarters, and she simpered and nodded as he bore her back against it, still on her knees. "Thirsty for my captain," she agreed – and bowed her head submissively as her captain's hands, roughened with years of toil, set to work lashing her tight.

First her waist and breasts, pulled taut and straight against the post. Then her arms, slim and defenseless, crossed behind her and tied fast. And then her knees and ankles, crossed behind the post and locking her in a reverse embrace with the erect wood behind her. Yet all the while, as her dirty yet undeniably feminine form was trussed into captive submission, not a flicker of distress showed on Betsy's face. On the contrary, she smiled softly, letting out a soft moan of what could only be pleasure as the captain finished his work.

She had come to adore all this.

The captain's hands were tugging down his breeches then, and as his already erect prick sprang into view, Betsy gazed up form her bound position with much the same glance and parted lips as she had given him on that fateful night a year before. "May I please you, sir?" she asked now – to which the captain's only response was a step forward and a sharp thrust of his cock into her welcoming mouth. "Please me, my pretty little whore," he rasped with a muffled groan – and she, with bobbing head and full, busily sucking mouth, murmured her mute agreement…

Gone was Kingstown. Gone was uncle, and family, and all that she'd known back home in England. She'd found a new home here – in wild disrepute, true, and with a marked man and his crew of desperate outlaws. But the captain had cared for her when no one else had; he had listened to her story and accepted her gift; he defended her daily from the lustful incursions of envious crewmen. Small wonder, then, that she had come to love his rough ways, to yearn for the comforting embrace of the ropes around her, to find her purpose in the grumble and mutter of his voice as she worked fervently to please him…

And as for him? Well, he had come to love her sultry ministrations, to crave the inhuman delight she and that mouth of hers could work upon his aching prick. He had come to take pride in his captive Betsy Belle: his "pet whore", as the crew jeeringly called her. She was special, this woman. Strange and sinful as hell, but like no one else he'd ever found… and best of all, she was all his.

"All mine," he gasped now as he felt the familiar, dizzying rush of release sparking through him under her maddening ministrations. "My little- fucking- whore-"

"Your little whore," she whispered when it was over. And as the sticky shower of his seed spilled down her wet chin and onto her bare, palpitating bosom, Betsy gazed up in ardent gratitude. "Your captive little whore. Sir."